


The People That We Always Hoped We Would Be

by The_Lionheart



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Canon divergences all over the place, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Stangst, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:56:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's the one good thing about regret: it's never too late. You can always change tomorrow if you want to."</p><p>- Scrooged</p>
            </blockquote>





	The People That We Always Hoped We Would Be

Stanford stands up with a groan and stretches his back, smiling despite his soreness. The glue is drying on the foil hand pressed proudly into the red leather of the third volume of his personal journals- already, he has a dozen ideas and half-started projects he's simply itching to record in it. He glances at the time and startles himself with the realization that, in just a few short minutes, he'll be twenty-eight years old. A wry grin forms as he clears hours-old boxes of takeout out of his study- by this age his parents had three children, and here he is, eating junk food like when he was a freshman at Backupsmore.

Oh well. Tomorrow's a new day.

He moves to turn out the light and freezes- he's positive he just heard the shuffle of feet behind him, too heavy to be the occasional gnome intruder. He fumbles for a weapon, his hand landing on the small X-acto knife he was using just moments ago. He turns, and there's a stooped, hooded figure in the shadows behind him.

"Who's there?"

"Dagnabbit, was I supposed to show up before midnight or after? Oh, for-"

"Show yourself!" Stanford snaps, bewildered and hating the experience so far. With a heavy sigh, the man steps forward. He has a long, thick, snow-white beard, a long nose, and bare feet. Under the shadow of his hood, Stanford can see the glint of glasses.

"God, you're so young," the man says quietly, his accent thick and familiar.

"Who are you?" Stanford asks, dumbfounded.

"Ask me who I was," the man replies, his voice still hushed.

 _Some kind of ghost_ , Stanford thinks, grabbing the spare notebook he's been using between Journals.

"Alright, alright, who were you, then?" he asks eagerly, pencil poised to start writing.

"In life, I was your partner, Fiddleford Hadron McGucket," the man says solemnly, removing his hood. He's bald, missing several teeth, and there's a manic glint to his eyes behind his glasses that Stanford only remembers ever seeing right around finals.

"Bullshit," Stanford says, after a moment. "Fiddleford's only thirty years old and he's alive and well in Palo Alto- he's got a wife and a toddler, I was just on the phone with him a few days... no, sorry, last Christmas. Wow, has it really been that long since-"

"So you can accept the existence of ghosts and interdimensional energy beings but not even consider the possibility of time travel? Stanford Pines, you are a terror," the old man snaps. "And what's this 'alive and well' nonsense? I ain't dead, you ass, I'm old."

"Then why did you-" Stanford begins, then frowns. "Wait, this seems oddly familiar."

"Yer gettin' off topic," Old Man Fiddleford says reproachfully, adding, "this is yer last chance, Ford. You have to figure out a way to make things right."

"What, with you?" Stanford asks, blinking. "Fiddleford, I- I'm honored, I think, but... you broke it off, you're the one who got married, I'm not going to-"

"No, not with me, although, I mean, closure would be nice," the old man says, and it's too much to hope that there's a wistful tone to his words. "No, this is... somethin' else. Ford, I know this is a touchy subject and I know I ain't better'n you when it comes down to it, but you need to change your ways. You can't keep ignoring your connection to other people, you can't keep holding on to your anger, and you can't keep runnin' away from the things you've done that you ain't proud of. I know, Ford."

Fiddleford buries his face in his hands, overcome with emotion. From here Stanford can see the familiar calluses formed by banjo-playing and a scar across one knuckle from a drunken soldering incident in their sophomore year.

"I know because I tried, Ford, and it destroyed my life. I wear the chain I forged in life, I made it, link by link. I gartered it of my own free will and of my own free will, I wore it."

Stanford clears his throat. "You're not wearing any chains."

The old man sighs after several long moments. "Don't tell the kids I forgot the chain."

"What kids?" Stanford asks, looking around.

"The kids who, as usual, are solely responsible for every good thing you have," the old man tells him, a touch sternly. "Now are you ready to start changin' your ways or what, Ford?"

"What do you want from me, Fiddleford?" Stanford asks, hands raised.

"Much."

The two men stare at each other, and then Stanford points at him, mouth open.

"You're doing _A Christmas Carol_ at me! Aren't you? First of all, you know I'm not religious, Fiddleford, but even if I _was_ I would be Jewish!"

"It wasn't my idea!" Fiddleford snaps, running a hand over his smooth head.

"Second of all, this may have escaped you, but it's not Christmas, it's mid-June!"

"It's your birthday, Stanford Pines," Fiddleford says, and gives him a snaggletoothed smile. "You will be visited by three... apparitions?"

"What, you're not sure if you're going to have a trio of so-called time travelers harass me all night?" Stanford asks, frowning.

"Honestly, I'm not sure if the first guy is a ghost'r not," Fiddleford admits. "And technically most of us visitin' you tonight are... kind of Schroedinger's Future Cats, if you will pardon the bastardization."

"I pardon nothing," Stanford says testily.

" _Meaning_ , we might or might not exist _as we exist now_ depending on your actions tonight and over the course of the rest of your life," Fiddleford tells him, eyes narrowed. "Donkey spittle, let a man finish a sentence before you react to it."

"So should I put a pot of coffee on for your little friends? Lay out some snacks or something?"

"Take this seriously, Ford!" The old man's fingers twitch as he looks abruptly away. "You wouldn't be jokin' around if you knew what was at stake."

"Tell me what's at stake, then!" Stanford says, frustrated. "Just tell me what you want, if it's so important-"

"You need to make things right with your brother, Ford. Something terrible will happen if things progress the way they're aimin'. You need to make things right with him if you're gonna change it."

Stanford bristles, too shocked to find anything to say, and Fiddleford sighs and gives him a fond smile.

"You always were a stubborn ass." He touches something in his sleeve and twinkles out of existence in a flash of light.

Stanford barely has time to register that he's gone before there's another flash of light and Fiddleford's back in the study, looking frazzled.

"Horseshit, I knew I forgot somethin'. Ford, three visits, first one's at one in the morning, don't know when the other two are happenin' because if I had it _my_ way the kids would be in bed already." Their eyes meet, and Fiddleford sighs. "Goodbye, Ford."

He disappears again. Stanford rakes a hand through his hair, heart pounding. He checks his watch- less than an hour before the next visit. He starts writing down what just happened, to make sure it's fresh. If he wasn't so sure that he was of sound mind he'd think it was all some kind of hallucination or a dream or-

-he pauses, putting the pencil down. Something that feels uncomfortably like guilt is nagging at him to call Fiddleford, the real Fiddleford, just to... just to make sure he's okay. Stanford swallows, his throat suddenly dry. No. Fiddleford is married and has a child; it's not... it never was the kind of relationship where he could just call in the middle of the night. Besides, he might be significantly more superstitious than Stanford is but Fiddleford _is_ a man of science; he won't appreciate being roused out of bed for a phone call from an old friend who had a bad dream.

He ends up making the pot of coffee anyway, just because he has a feeling that he won't get much sleep tonight regardless of whatever happens.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's one-fifteen and he's already regretting his second cup of coffee when he hears the roar of a motorcycle outside his home. It's not terribly uncommon to hear the distant sounds of powerful engines throughout the night- there are a number of biker-friendly bars in town, after all- but this one sounds like it's really right outside the door.

Someone bangs on his door, and Stanford scowls at the intrusion- although, he supposes if he hadn't been keeping himself awake for the nonexistent ghostly visitor, he might have had to face a break-in from an unruly biker.

Stanford barely makes it to his feet before the locks on the door spring open with a series of soft clicks and the door swings wide to reveal a leather-clad man with a mane of strawberry-blonde hair and impressively rugged facial hair to match, his eyes completely covered in glossy black sunglasses.

"Alright, Pines, we're runnin' a little late so let's get this shitshow over with," he says gruffly. Stanford goggles at him for a moment, uncomprehending.

"You're... the ghost of Birthdays Past?" he asks finally. The biker raises one blonde eyebrow.

"What? No. The name's Jimmy. They got me runnin' the past shit tonight, I guess, but if you call me Birthdays Past I'm gonna fuckin' leave you stranded in 1863," he replies bluntly.

"That's... fair," Stanford says, putting down his mug before he can drop it. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"You'd remember ever meetin' me," Jimmy leans back, giving him an obvious look-over. "They said you're supposed to be the _smart_ twin."

"I'm very sorry, I just- I don't understand why you're doing this," Stanford admits.

"Let's just say it's a long story and there wasn't anybody else who had a connection to a Stan Pines in the past, even if it's the wrong Stan," Jimmy says breezily. "I mean, I figured the old guy woulda been the way to go, but no, he apparently gave himself brain damage to forget knowin' you."

"What?" Stanford asks, horrified. "No, wait, Fiddleford would never-"

"Looks like you're stuck with me for this one, pal. Come on,  we're just gonna look at a couple of birthdays that already happened, I got a list." He does indeed, waving a little scrap of notebook paper around. Stanford can see where it's been written on in pink marker.

"But-" Stanford tries, and Jimmy grabs him by the collar and hauls him bodily out of the house.

 "The only butt I wanna see is yours in the sidecar," the biker says gruffly, then scowls. "Dammit, I told the kids I wouldn't say that stupid line and then I went ahead and did it. Don't tell the little brats, they'll never get over it."

"Look, I get that you're supposed to be showing me all sorts of... visions," Stanford says, shuddering lightly. "Here's a proposal: you don't do that, and you say you did. Right? I'm only twenty-eight, I remember all my birthdays. You guys want me to get back in touch with Stanley for some reason, fine, I'll get his number from Ma and call him up tomorrow."

"Sit your ass down in the sidecar or so help me I'll drag you along behind," Jimmy snarls, literal flames shooting out of his eyes behind his glasses and snapping hungrily around his teeth.

"Alright, alright. Fine," Stanford acquiesces. "So what, um, what birthday are we going to see first?"

"1959, baby," Jimmy says, throwing a leg astride the motorcycle and revving the engine. "Let's see your ass turn six years old." There's a rush and Stanford lurches in his seat, shutting his eyes against the wind-

-he realizes they haven't moved the same moment that he realizes it's bright and sunny. He opens his eyes not to the night sky of the Gravity Falls forest he's lived in for the past six years, but to the mid-afternoon light of Glass Shard Beach in early summer.

"Oh shit, look how tiny you guys are," Jimmy says, elbowing him. "Look at you cute little fuckers."

"Shut up," Stanford says irritably. Two small brown-haired boys are running around on the beach, throwing sand at each other and laughing. From here their hands look the same.

"So now you're," Jimmy pauses to check with his list. "Now you're here to look at how you an' Lee used to be. Look at it. Let it marinate in that big brain a'yours."

"You're one of Stanley's friends, right?" Stanford asks softly. "Is that why you're doing this, because of him?"

"You kiddin'? I haven't seen Lee in years," Jimmy says. "This may or may not surprise you, Nerd Stan, but keepin' friends ain't exactly on the list of things Stanley Pines was ever good at."

"...I suppose it doesn't surprise me," Stanford admits, sighing. "How long are we supposed to be doing this?"

"Until you see everything you're supposed to see," Jimmy tells him gruffly, waving the list at him again. "I've got two more stops after this."

"Well, what am I supposed to see?" Stanford asks, exasperated. Jimmy points at the kids again.

One of the boys trips and falls, slicing his knee open on a shell. The other keeps running for a few paces, before his twin's cries alert him to what happened. Stanford doesn't remember this, but- well, he was six, what was he supposed to remember? He knows he got books for that birthday, he knows he ate cake with his family. If there was anything important he had to remember about it he would have.

"It hurts, Lee," the hurt twin sobs, and Stanford takes a few steps forward.

"Can they hear or see us?" he asks, suddenly afraid of being heard or seen.

"Nah." Jimmy lights up a cigarette. "Go nuts, Nerd Stan."

The small Stanley kneels down by his brother, furrowing his brow- they don't know they need glasses yet, and he has to squint and bring his face close to Stanford's knee to see the damage.

"You said salt water can keep it clean so it won't get gross, right?" Stanley asks, and Stanford nods tearfully. "Okay, wait right here."

The boy runs off to plunge his hands into the tide, then runs back, his hands cupped together. He stops, looking unhappily at his hands as he realizes that the water is mostly gone, spilled after just a handful of steps. Thinking quickly, Stanley peels off his shirt and soaks it in the waves, running back with the dripping material clutched to his chest.

The adult Stanford watches as the small Stanford sits patiently and lets Stanley wring his shirt out over the cut on his knee, the water rinsing sand and debris away. Stanley looks up at him, smiling hopefully, and his twin smiles tearfully back at him.

"You think we can get home with your knee all banged up?" Stanley asks, and Stanford nods, sniffling.

"Pops is gonna be mad your shirt's all wet," he says, and Stanley hugs him.

"Aw, who cares, Ford? Come on, Ma said she maked a cake for us."

"Made," the adult Stanford corrects under his breath.

"You think your Pops got mad at Lee for his shirt?" Jimmy asks, tapping his ashes away.

"Probably, our dad wouldn't have been impressed with Stanley's story," Stanford says quietly. "So what, is this supposed to show me that once, when we were little, Stanley was different? That he wasn't the selfish, conniving criminal he turned out to be?"

"Hey, I resemble that remark," Jimmy says, grinning harshly. "They weren't kiddin' when they told me you got a stubborn streak. Come on, let's move, we have somewhen else to be."

"We're not going to follow them home and see my parents?" Stanford asks, blinking.

"You haven't seen them in six years, Nerd Stan, I think you can handle not seein' 'em now," Jimmy says drily. "Come on, sidecar time little man."

"Fine." Stanford climbs in, frowning. "Who came up with that list?"

"The kids. Look, it's easy shit- the one where you're both turning six, the last one you guys do together when you're seventeen, and then last year's birthday. They wanted to make sure you skipped over the birthdays Lee was in prison for." Jimmy starts the engine, glancing over at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. "Let's see you guys at seventeen, huh?"

Stanford means to keep his eyes open, but there's a flash of light he immediately has to shut them against- even after they're stopped he has to blink several times.

"So let me get this straight, you knucklehead, by some fluke you managed to test into every one of your brother's classes? You idiot, you're not smart enough for that! You can't keep up a C average if you're in smart people classes!"

Stanford flinches at the sound of his father yelling- it was a common enough occurrence that he still feels that childish crawl of guilt and shame running up his guts into his throat. Jimmy snorts.

"Jumpy lil shit, ain't we? Don't worry, Nerd Stan, it's not you in there." Jimmy gestures at Pines Pawns in front of them, stepping through the door like it's made of air. Stanford pauses, gently pushing his hand forward to see if he'll go through the wood, too. His fingertips pass through the door, and Jimmy sticks his head out, just over them. "Aw, I was kinda hopin' it'd be like that bit in the Bill Murray movie."

"What movie?" Stanford asks, and Jimmy slaps a hand over his head.

"That's right, that movie comes out in '88. Well, get your ass in here, Nerd, you don't want to get walked through by a you that's eleven years younger."

"Why?" Stanford asks, hurrying inside. Jimmy gives him a look that- despite the fact that his eyes are completely obscured- clearly indicates he thinks Stanford is an idiot.

"Because it'd be _weird._ Jeez, are you sure you're the smart one?"

Stanford freezes as he watches his father storm down the stairs, passing through Jimmy's shoulder without a second glance and moving into the first-floor shop. Jimmy shudders, making a wry face.

"See? Weird. Come on."

"I don't remember Pops being mad at Stanley over getting into my classes," Stanford admits quietly. "I mean, he always hated that Stanley only passed those classes because he was copying my work, but-"

"But it never did occur to you that Lee had to be at least smart enough to get into those classes in the first place, did it?" Jimmy says, and laughs harshly. "That's my Lee. He was great on a heist, he just looks so fuckin' dumb that nobody could believe he had it in him to crack a safe. People don't trust an idiot, but they sure don't think they need to watch their backs around one either."

"Ugh," Stanford sighs, frowning as they step into the bedroom he shared with Stanley every night of their childhood. Stanley is curled up on the bottom bunk, staring up at the bunk above him.

"What's he doing?" Stanford asks, peering close. "What's he looking at?"

"Why you askin' me? It ain't my bedroom. Christ," Jimmy sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what we're lookin' at, it's not like he would've told me."

All three of them hear the pounding of feet on stairs at the same time, and a teenage Stanford opens the door and bounces into the room. Stanley is up on his feet in a flash, eyes bright, smiling widely at the sight of his twin.

"Hey, you're home! Did the mail come in? Did we get our classes for senior year?" Stanford asks, and Stanley laughs at him.

"You're such a nerd, Ford. Only you would be happy to find out what classes you got into next year," he teases, grabbing an opened envelope off the nightstand. "There you go, pal."

"Aw, you looked before me?" Stanford asks, eyes scanning the pages before looks up at Stanley. "So... do we have anything together this year?"

"Uh, yeah, actually. They gave us everything together. Just like always, right?" Stanley grins, and Stanford sighs, smiling faintly.

"Ugh, they always do that. I'm glad we get to be together so much, but I wish administration wasn't so lazy about sticking us together all the time."

"Yeah, well, makes takin' attendance easier, right?" Stanley laughs. "I just dunno how I'm gonna pass anything next year."

"Wow, that doesn't even seem plausible," Jimmy snorts. "You two are a couple of idiots when you want to be."

"What? Now look, there was no reason for me to think-" Stanford splutters.

"No reason for you to think he was even smart enough to be there next to you, yeah, it's been somewhat mentioned," Jimmy says, waving a hand. "Well, now ya know, right?"

"Aw, Lee, we'll just do like we always do," Stanford says breezily, peeling off his collared shirt to change into plain white tee to match Stanley's. "I don't want them movin' you into different classes halfway through the semester."

"Yeah, thanks, Sixer," Stanley says, blushing.

"Wow," Jimmy says, rolling his eyes. "No wonder you never went into teachin', Pines."

"Hey, this isn't my fault," Stanford snaps. "If anything, it's _worse_ \- Stanley's not as stupid as he pretends to be, he's just too lazy to do the work on his own!"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Jimmy agrees, as the boys chat together about whatever it is teenaged boys talk about. "Like he hasn't been sittin' here for who knows how long bein' told by your Pops he's too dumb to even try to pass his classes."

Stanford narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to respond, but Jimmy elbows him hard enough to knock him a few steps to the left.

"Heya, Sixer," Stanley says shyly, bringing a box out from under his pillow. "Happy birthday."

"Aw, Lee, you shouldn't have! We're supposed to be saving our money for our trip to hunt the Jersey devil!" Stanford exclaims, and Stanley shrugs.

"Hey, what's Pops gonna do, arrest me? Come on, open it already," he says, looking down. The teenaged Stanford takes it quickly out of the box and pauses to look at it. It's an old bobblehead of some major league baseball player, but the head's been covered in a papier-mache model of the face of an old man with wild, spiky gray hair.

"You made me an Einstein bobblehead!" Stanford cries, thoroughly charmed. "Lee, I love it!"

"Aw, you loved it," Jimmy croons. "Do you even know where it is now?"

"This was over a decade ago!" Stanford snaps, even as Jimmy starts dragging him out of the room by the sleeve. "So Stanley did something cute for our birthday- I'm not saying he didn't- but he had to be irresponsible to do it! And instead of applying himself to his schoolwork, he just... gave up and copied every line I ever wrote! Nobody _made_ him do that!"

"Jeesh, you really are your father's son," Jimmy mutters, yanking Stanford through the door. "Come on, genius, we have one more stop."

"Last year's birthday, huh? I was in Gravity Falls," Stanford sighs, plopping himself into the sidecar. "I spent last year doing the exact same thing I had planned for this year."

"Then maybe you'll quit yer bitchin'," Jimmy retorts. Stanford shuts his eyes against the flash of light, and when he opens them he's in a dry, sunbaked desert.

"What the hell is this," Stanford asks flatly.

"Turn around, for fuck's sake," Jimmy replies with a heavy sigh. "How the fuck I got stuck wrangling you on this, I don't even know..."

Stanford gets out of the sidecar and looks behind him- behind him is a parking lot, and beyond that is a motel at a crossroads. He can see a gas station and what looks like a tiny dive bar beyond, and nothing but dry fields and drier desert past that.

"Stanley spent his last birthday here?" Stanford asks, frowning. It's so far away from what he remembers about Stanley- his love of the ocean, his love of adventure- that he's not entirely sure he believes this is real.

"Yeah, one of the kids has actually seen this one, so I'm guessing there's no hookers or coke in there," Jimmy says, patting his jacket pockets for a moment. "Where did I put that... oh, hey, it's room one eighty-six, I'll catch you up in a minute. Where the fuck did I put that pack...."

Stanford frowns at him, squinting in the harsh sunlight, and walks resolutely towards the room on the ground floor, numbered 186. He's kind of leery at what he might find- Jimmy's crude assessment that there wouldn't be drugs or prostitutes kind of makes him worry that he really _is_ going to walk in on his brother in some kind of gross situation, and he doesn't think he can handle the sight of Stanley... fornicating with someone.

He steps through the door and stops. Stanley's just waking up, alone in a room with two twin beds, even though if the clock's right it's nearly two in the afternoon. He rubs his eyes and sits up, looking around the room, his bloodshot eyes passing over Stanford with no sign of recognition.

"Stanley, what are you doing here?" Stanford asks quietly, watching his brother stand up, shuffling to the bathroom like an old man. There's a box of cereal on the nightstand- sugary, full of multicolored little marshmellows- and the television set is on some kind of gameshow. The toilet in the small bathroom flushes and Stanley goes back to bed, tossing a damp towel onto the floor and grabbing the cereal.

"Ugh. No wonder he's gettin' fat, whenever he does eat it's this processed sugar crap," Jimmy complains loudly, making Stanford jump. "Anything good happen while I was smoking?"

"What? No, he just... got up." Stanford frowns. "So Stanley spends the day sleeping in and eating sweets and watching garbage television? It sounds like the kind of thing he loved to do when we were kids."

"Yeah, that's a happy man," Jimmy says sarcastically. They stand there for several minutes as Stanley shovels handful after handful of cereal into his mouth, eyes only vaguely focused on the episode of Cash Wheel.

When the phone rings Stanley jumps to answer it, spilling cereal all over the bed. "H-Hello?"

His face relaxes, and for a moment Stanford can see the boy he used to know. "Oh, hey Ma. Oh, yeah, you know me, always busy." He laughs a little. "Nah, never too busy for you. Yeah? Hey, happy birthday to you too, Ma, you're the one who did all the work!"

He laughs, leaning his face against the chipped wooden headboard. "I'll stop bein' gross when you stop laughin' at it."

Stanford leans in closer- he can smell the stale sweat on Stanley's body, and the chemical sweetness of the cereal, but he can't hear what his mother's saying on the other end, just the tinny sound of her voice, the way it pitches high on certain words when she gets into a rhythm.

"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Ma." Stanley closes his eyes, his smile fading. "Aw, Ma, Ford doesn't want to hear from me. Yeah, okay, I will." He sniffles once. "I love you too, Ma."

Stanley's slow to hang up, gazing down at his knees for several minutes of near silence.

"Aw, fuck it," he says suddenly, dialing in the number Stanford recognizes as his own landline.

"I don't remember talking to Stanley," he says, frowning.

"Stanford Pines residence-" His own voice, loud enough to carry halfway across the room.

"Hey, Ford, it's-"

"-please leave your name and number and the reason for calling, and I'll get back to-"

Stanley hangs up, running his hand over his face.

"That's not my fault," Stanford says, taking a step back. "He didn't give me the chance. How is that my fault exactly?"

"Did anybody say it was?" Jimmy sighs. "Come on, let's go see how you did your birthday last year." Jimmy grabs his shoulder and snaps his fingers and they're back in Gravity Falls, and Stanford is drinking tea on his back porch, writing in his second journal with a contented smile on his face.

Stanford notices the phone ringing, even as the Stanford of a year ago seems to ignore it.

"Hey, pick it up," he snaps, waving an arm at himself. "Come on, I know you can hear it out here if I can hear it. What if it's Ma? What if it's Stanley? Just-"

The past Stanford cocks his head to one side- for a moment, Stanford thinks he can hear him- and then he shrugs, as the answering machine picks up.

"Must've been some important work you were doin' there," Jimmy says, sounding amused.

"I know what you're trying to do," Stanford says dully. "And it's not going to work. You know why?"

"Nah, tell me why, genius," the biker replies.

"Because it doesn't change anything!" Stanford snaps. "He's still lazy, he's still the person who destroyed my chances to go to West Coast Tech just because he couldn't stomach the idea of me moving on and leaving that shitty little town behind, and he hasn't changed anything! He didn't have to lie to Ma just now, he didn't have to hang up the phone without leaving me a number I could reach him at, he didn't have to ruin his own life by getting involved with crime and those stupid get rich quick schemes he told our mom about and he didn't have to get involved with people like _you_!"

"Alright, smartass," Jimmy says softly.

"Just take me back home so I can wait for whoever's next in line to keep me up all night," Stanford growls.

"Yeah, you know what, we're going off-script on this one, buddy." Jimmy picks him up by the shirt, a baking heat coming off him in waves. "Let's hit one of the birthdays I was there for."

"What? You said it'd only be three!" Stanford yelps, struggling to free himself. Jimmy's grin is all fire.

"I fuckin' lied."

They move through time and space and Stanford wishes he had the context of the sidecar now, or at least something to brace himself against-

-Jimmy throws him to the ground. It's cold, wet concrete.

Someone is whimpering softly behind him. Stanford scrabbles to get up and freezes, his knees getting damp and dirty on the floor.

Stanley's head is down and his shoulders are shaking, and his hands are behind him. He's wearing a dirty, sweatstained white tee shirt, and there's a thick, bright river of red down the front, making it stick to his chest and stomach.

"Stanley?" Stanford whispers hoarsely. "Wh-when is this?"

"This right here is '73, Chicago. Warehouse behind the butcher's," Jimmy says softly. "Happy twentieth birthday, Stans."

A man with a shock of messy orange hair grabs a handful of Stanley's hair and yanks his head back. Stanford winces- they're not exactly close anymore, but he can't stand the sight of Stanley's eye swollen shut, his lip split open, and his already-big nose twisted and purple in an obvious break. Stanley looks thinner than Stanford's ever seen him, hollow in the pits of his cheeks where Ma always used to pinch him and call him her biggest baby. There's a soft, high whistling noise with every one of Stanley's shallow breaths that Stanford really doesn't like.

"The kid doesn't know anything," Jimmy snarls, and it takes Stanford a moment to realize that it's not the Jimmy next to him that's speaking- looking much younger, green eyes flashing with anger, there's a Jimmy standing in the corner of the room, flanked by two burly guys. "Just let him go, Chuck."

"Oh, we know he doesn't know shit," the ginger says, shaking Stanley's head a little. Stanford can see the lines of sweat cutting through the blood from his nose and mouth, and the frantic bobbing of his adam's apple. "Right, dumbass? You don't know shit, do you, kid?"

"Please," Stanley says softly, his body shuddering violently against the chair.

"Let him go," Jimmy says quietly behind him.

"Let him go!" Jimmy screams, struggling to get away from the two men holding him against the wall. The ginger throws his fist into the side of Stanley's chest; Stanley's body jerks against the impact but he doesn't cry out. "It's at Ricky's place, alright? Fuckin'-"

The ginger laughs and lets go of Stanley's hair, and his head lolls to the side.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"You know, this was the first time I really understood," Jimmy says, as the men leave the warehouse and the younger Jimmy rushes to Stanley's side, struggling to check his pulse and get him untied from the chair.

"You idiot," Jimmy is panting harshly, slapping Stanley awake. "You idiot, why didn't you tell them where it was? Look at what you made them do, Lee, you coulda just-"

"Understood what?" Stanford asks, eyes round behind his glasses.

"I-I dint wanna let you down," Stanley says softly, and the one eye he can open is full of adoration. "Y-You can trus' me, Jimmy." The younger Jimmy hesitates, cupping Stanley's face in his hands.

"I know, Lee, I know. You did good, brother, you did so good. Come on, if anybody deserves to be high right now, it's you."

"That I could make your brother do _anything_ I wanted. That I just had to pretend to care about him a little," Jimmy says flatly. "The kids knew Lee'd been in prison. They wouldn't've asked me to do this if they knew I was the one who sent him there."

"Are- are you and Stanley-" Stanford's question dies in his throat when Jimmy turns to look at him. "Never mind."

"I think we've seen enough," Jimmy says. "Oh, and if you tell the kids about our little detour, I will be back for you _tomorrow_."

Jimmy grins, and he is engulfed in flames as he turns away. "Later, Nerd."

"Wait!" Stanford cries, staggering to his feet. "Wait, don't leave me-"

Stanford wakes up on the couch with a cry, his hands shaking. He checks the time- two in the morning. He takes a shuddering breath. He wants- he wants his Ma. His fingers itch to pick up the phone. It's five in Glass Shard Beach, though. His parents wouldn't possibly be awake yet-

-his phone rings and he dives for it, panting. "Hello! Hello?"

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," his Ma says on the other line. Stanford almost bursts into tears. "Ford? Baby, what's wrong?"

"N-nothing, Ma, I'm just... I'm really glad to hear your voice right now," he admits, inhaling sharply. "It's five in the morning there, Ma, what are you doing up?"

"Would you believe your mother's a psychic and knew her baby needed her?"

"At this point I dunno what I'd believe," he laughs, tears rolling down his face. "I just... I just had a really bad dream, Ma. Really bad."

The line is silent for a few moments.

"Honey," his mother says gently. "Why don't you come out to visit sometime, Ford? We really miss you a lot, pumpkin."

"And get to spend the entire time there listening to Dad complain about my chosen field? That's not..." Stanford pauses, clearing his throat. "What I meant to say, Ma... I just... you know, it's real busy out here, in the pursuit of science. I-I don't know if I'll have time to get away from my work, is all."

"I know, Ford. Your work is your life," she sighs, and he winces.

"Hey, Ma, uh, I was... I was thinking it over. Do you still have a number for Stanley?"

The other line's quiet for so long that he's afraid the call disconnected.

"Ma...?"

"O-of course, Ford. You want it? I was gonna call him in the afternoon, I usually get him around two or three, his time. If you want to call around then, I could call him afterwards, maybe?" His mother is so hopeful-sounding. Stanford wonders if Stanley ever told her about Jimmy, what he would even say if he had.

"Yeah, that's good. Also, Ma, do- do you know if Stanley's ever been to prison?" he asks.

"Your brother's... had his struggles, Ford. He just fell in with the wrong crowd is all. Our Stanley doesn't have a criminal mind, you know? Not really."

"Yeah, sure," Stanford sighs, massaging his temples. "What's his number, Ma? I'll... I'll call him up if I get a chance today."

"Oh, okay." She recites the number twice to make sure he's got it. He writes it down in his notebook, under the entry about the Schroedinger's Fiddleford he met at midnight. "Ford? I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Ma."

He hangs up, staggers over to the couch, throws himself down. It's only two-thirty. He closes his eyes and hopes he doesn't have any other dreams like that again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Should we... should we wake him up?"

"Doods, he looks like he needs his sleep."

"Yeah, but- come on, we can't stick around here forever."

Stanford opens his eyes to three faces gazing down at him- two children and a tall, chubby young man with sparse facial hair. The children- a boy and a girl- look almost exactly like Shermie's son Isaac.

"Let me guess," he says, his mouth dry. "You're the kids everyone keeps mentioning tonight."

"Haha, right on Dr. Pines!" the young man says, laughing.

"Come on, Grunkle Ford, we don't have all night! We're the Ghosts of Birthdays Present!" the girl chirps, bouncing onto his legs.

"Mabel, we're too old to be doing that!" the boy chides.

"Exactly how old are you kids?" Stanford asks, retreating to one end of the couch before the girl can bruise him further.

"Well, these guys are thirteen, and I'm about to be twenty-three," the man tells him, picking the girl up in one beefy arm. "Um, but we can't tell you a whole lot, because it might do weird future stuff and change the past?"

"Is that not what you're trying to do tonight?" he asks, and the trio exchanges an uneasy look.

"Well, it's just... we're not born yet, so we don't know if you're going to do something that makes it so we're not born," the boy explains, wringing his hands in his brown ushanka hat.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not going to do anything to affect whether my nephew Isaac has children," Stanford says drily. He waves a hand at the man. "And as for you, are we even... related?"

" _Yes,_ " the girl says fiercely, throwing her arms around the man's neck. He sniffles and pats her back.

 "...right. So the three of you are taking me to see what, exactly? Stanley isn't exactly going to be up and about at..." He checks his watch. "Eight-thirty? I thought this was supposed to be a nighttime thing."

"We took a nap," the man explains. "Anyway, you really looked like you were tired, so we let you sleep in. Stan's in New Mexico now so he's an hour ahead anyway."

"I stand by my point. Stanley isn't exactly going to be up and about yet," Stanford says drily.

"Well, we can talk about your mystical twin powers," the man says. "Boom. That's a great idea."

"We don't have mystical-" Stanford and the hatted boy say, simultaneously. The boy blushes furiously and looks away.

"Great-Uncle Ford, you said something to me once, back in Gravity Falls," the boy says, unable to make eye contact.

"We're still in Gravity Falls," Stanford points out.

"You know what I mean," the boy says sharply, looking up. "You said you thought... you thought I'd feel suffocated, being with my twin all the time. You thought I'd want to grow up without her because of that. Is... is that true? Is that how you feel about Stan?"

"I-" Stanford hesitates. "I don't know, kid. Maybe it would have been better for both of us if we'd..." He shrugs, frowning. "Did you see... any of what I saw with that Jimmy guy?"

"No, although- we were kind of surprised to find out Grunkle Stan used to be friends with a demon. So I guess that's one thing you two have in comm-" The boy stops, looking panicked. "Wait- Mabel, does he know about- about you-know-who yet?"

"Aw doods, that's a giant spoiler," the man hisses in a stage whisper, bending close to the kids' ears.

"I dunno, check," the girl whispers back to her brother. "Uh, hold please, Grunkle Ford."

"What? Hey!" Stanford says, alarmed, as the boy pulls out a battered red leather journal, the gold foil hand still solidly stuck to the front despite the rips and tears in the binding. "That's mine!"

"Uh, technically dood, yours is over there, am I right?" the man says, jerking a thumb at the pristine, untouched journal on the desk.

"Oh... man, I can't tell from this if they've met yet," the boy says, flipping pages with a frown. The girl looks over at Stanford, scowling.

"Well, I don't care about spoilers. Grunkle Ford, are you friends with Bill Cipher?"

Stanford blinks, taken aback. "Wh-what? No, I-"

"Alright then!" the girl exclaims. "If you meet a yellow triangle guy, _don't_ make any deals, he's _not_ your friend, he _will_ start the apocalypse and destroy everything you love!"

"Mabel!" the boy cries out, aghast. "You can't just-"

"I can and I will, Dipper!" the girl says, shaking a finger at Ford. "We get to use our paradox-free wish any way we want to and I'm telling Grunkle Ford right now that he can't be friends with Bill because Bill is evil! He was going to _kill_ you! And-"

The girl's voice hitches, and the boy grabs her in a fierce hug.

"It would have been my fault," she whispers, and he shakes his head.

"I'm okay, though. Look. I'm okay. We can fix everything. We just need to make Ford understand."

"You- you mean to tell me, you people are trying to make me reconnect with _Stanley_ of all people when there's a literal demon I have to look out for?" Stanford asks sharply. " _Why?!_ "

"He's your brother," the boy says, looking over his sister's shoulder at Stanford. "Isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not," Stanford says, running his hand through his hair. "Look, you kids are cute, and I guess I'll... be seeing you get born in a few years, so that'll be fun. But do you even know what Stanley's like? He's a stubborn, selfish, violent criminal who hangs around other violent criminals, did it ever occur to you that I don't want to be around someone like that?"

"You take that back," the young man says, very quietly. "Don't talk about Mr. Pines like that, Dr. Pines. He's a hero."

"A hero?" Stanford barks out a laugh. "He wasn't content to ruin his own life, he had to ruin mine, too. How does _that_ make anyone a hero?"

"Doesn't look like you're doin' too bad so far," the man says. "But hey, what do I know, I just had to live through the apocalypse you started because you wouldn't be family to the only person who-"

The girl reaches out and squeezes the man's hand. "Do you want to go home, Soos? We... we don't have to do this if it's going to upset you."

"Yeah, Soos, we can try to find some other way," the boy says, leveling a look of hurt disappointment at Stanford.

"I don't get it, how does reconnecting with Stanley prevent the apocalypse?" Stanford asks, frowning.

"It doesn't. Or, it might or might not," the boy says. "The apocalypse started for a lot of reasons. It's over now. We don't need to get into details about what happened."

"So... shouldn't you be making sure I don't do that, then?" Stanford asks.

"You were warned the first time," the girl says, rubbing her eyes. "Come on. We can look at a few places before we have to see Grunkle Stan."

"Wait, how are you going to-" Stanford starts, shielding his eyes from the sudden flash of light.

"Let's take a look at your parents. Great-grandma and great-grandpa look pretty good. Kind of early for lunch, but I don't judge," the girl says, peeking in the window at Pines Pawn.

"Can't we just walk through the door like last time?" Stanford asks, and they shrug at one another.

"Only one way to find out, doods!" The man charges through the wall, then sticks his head out, raising a fist. "YUSSS."

"-spoke to your son this morning," Ma is saying. She's going gray, Stanford thinks with a pang. Her hair was the same dark brown it's always been, the last time he saw her in person. Why does she look so much older than he remembers?

"Which one?" Pops asks, eyes on his notepad as he checks the numbers for the store's budget.

" _Which one_ ," Ma repeats irritably. "Stanford."

"Huh." Pops keeps working, only glancing up when he hears his wife's fingernails tapping angrily on the tabletop. "What'd he want?"

"It's their birthday, Filbrick," she snaps. The kids wince.

"You kids are from the future, right?" Stanford asks, as his father shrugs noncommittally and gets back to working on the budget. "Do they ever get a divorce?"

"Um," the girl says, looking at her brother. "I'm not sure... they died before we were born. Dipper, do you know if they stay together or not?"

"Grandpa Shermie never said," the boy replies, shrugging.

"Oh," Stanford says, watching as his mother, fuming, slams her empty plate into the sink and storms out of the room. "So... for me this is the present, but for all of you it's really the past, right?"

"Yup," the girl says, scratching her arm through her thick sweater.

"So what are we going to see when we get to Stanley?" he asks. They shrug at him.

"He didn't get a chance to tell us," the boy says, then frowns. "I mean, it's not all that much later that he... does something we know about."

"That Jimmy guy made it seem like he might be up to something... inappropriate... maybe you two shouldn't be here for that," Stanford points out. The twins exchange an uneasy glance.

"We didn't really think this would be the hard part," the boy says, shuffling his feet. "I mean, I was fine with just doing the past stuff and the future stuff, but-"

"We're keeping it in the theme," the girl says firmly. "We love you, Grunkle Ford, and we won't stop loving you if everything ends up going exactly the way it did the first time, but you're a way better person than Ebenezer Scrooge is and if it worked for him, it'll work for you."

"If you say so," Stanford says doubtfully. "So there's going to be someone coming to warn me about the future, after you kids show me what Stanley's doing today?"

"Yep. The one person we know you'll trust," the boy says, giving him a sad little smile.

"Okay... I guess," Stanford says, scratching the back of his head. "Well, let's go see Stanley."

It's a different desert, a different motel, but the important bits are still there- some shitty town that's barely a wide place in the road that stinks of salt and alkali and diesel fumes. The license plates on the cars in the lot- including, Stanford notices, Stanley's battered El Diablo- are all for New Mexico.

"The land of enchantment, everybody," the boy says drily. Stanford feels like he would like this kid in different circumstances.

The man holds out his hands, and the children each take hold without any prompting. Stanford doesn't know what it is he's feeling until the girl holds her hand expectantly towards him.

"Um, okay," he says, grabbing her hand. She doesn't comment on his extra finger- being his grand-niece, he supposes she would have grown up knowing about it.

"Alright, let's go, guys," the man says.

They step inside- the kids, apparently, already know which room to head to, so Stanley must have told them at some point. The smell hits them like a wall, more solid than the actual wall they passed through to get inside.

"Wow, Mr. Pines sure lives a... bachelor lifestyle," the man says, and even Stanford can tell that every ounce of cheerfulness in his voice is false. There are empty pizza boxes and takeout containers strewn around the room, interspersed with dozens of cans that look to be about evenly split between cheap beer and store-brand cola. The bed has been stripped down to the mattress- the heavy polyester comforter has been stuck to the wall with tacks over the curtains, blocking out any sliver of sunlight, and the sheets are balled up in one corner and smell... bad. The kids wrinkle their noses but don't seem to know what the source of the smell is. Stanford remembers getting absolutely wasted in college, the rank odor of vomit that consists solely of bile and booze.

Stanley's curled up on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, and Stanford realizes he's awake.

He looks the way he did when it was our seventeenth birthday, Stanford realizes.

There's a gun on the mattress next to his hand, Stanford realizes.

The girl is clinging tightly to his arm and she's crying, Stanford realizes.

"You kids shouldn't be here," he says, as gently as he can.

" _Grunkle Stan_ shouldn't be here," the boy says, clutching the front of his vest. "Wh-why isn't he moving? Why's he just-"

They hush, as Stanley sits up and picks up the gun, checks to see if it's loaded, grabs a cardboard box out from under the bed and puts one bullet in with shaking fingers.

"Don't look, doods," the man says, grabbing the children and holding them close. There are tears streaming down his face. Stanford wonders suddenly if this man is Stanley's son. "Don't look. It's gonna be okay, just don't- don't look."

Stanley flips a coin, barks a mirthless little laugh, spins the chamber, cocks the gun, presses the barrel under his chin, and pulls the trigger.

_Click._

Stanley laughs again, puts the gun down on the other side of the bed.

"For god's sake, Stanley, why?!" Stanford asks, taking a step forward. "You knucklehead, you could have- you could have died! Why did you do that?"

The phone rings. Stanley looks at it, biting his lower lip, looking more afraid of the phone than he did of the gun.

"Pick it up!" Stanford snaps at him.

Stanley's hand hovers over the receiver, and something in Stanford breaks. He reaches out and pushes Stanley's hand onto the cheap plastic phone, and Stanley's hand jerks forward. Blinking, Stanley picks the phone up, looking at it like somehow it was to blame for his hand moving.

"H-hey?"

"Don't touch that," Stanford hisses at the girl. She drops the gun back onto the mattress, looking guilty, but Stanley doesn't notice the movement behind him. The ghost of a smile plays across his face.

"Thanks, Ma. Hey, happy birthday to you too, you're the one who... haha, yeah, I guess I always do say that."

"Tell Mom," Stanford tells his brother, his fists shaking. "Tell her how you're eating, Stanley. Tell her how you're living. Tell her what you just did!"

"Aw, you know me, Ma, always busy." Stanley runs a shaking hand through his dirty shoulder-length hair. "Nah, never."

"He can't hear you, Great Uncle Ford," the boy says softly.

"Maybe we should go, doods," the man (Stanley's son?) says, his voice cracking.

"Ma... Ford doesn't want to talk to me," Stanley says, his smile slipping. "No, Ma, I ain't- I'm not sayin' I know better'n you."

His eyes close.

"You don't know that," Stanford shouts, his eyes burning. "You don't _know_ that, you fucking idiot!"

"Yeah, I know." Stanley's head drops. "Hey, Ma? I- I love you. You too, Ma. G'bye."

Stanford lunges forward, snatching the phone and Stanley's hand, and screams, "TELL HER, STANLEY!"

Stanley drops the phone like it bit him. "F-Ford?" he asks, eyes huge. "Ford, is that-"

"Stanley, can you hear me?" Stanford begs into the phone. "Stanley, listen to me, for once in your life just listen to me-"

Stanley buries his face in his hands with a sob. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

"Stop it!" Stanford cries out. Stanley passes through him, reaching across the bed, and picks up the gun, puts it to his forehead, pulls the trigger.

"Grunkle Stan!" the boy gasps, his voice cracking.

"Lee, stop!" Stanford shrieks, his hands passing through Stanley's chest.

_Click._

"Fucking," Stanley sobs. "Piece of shit, do something right for fucking once-"

_Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick-_

"Fuck you!" Stanley wails, throwing the gun across the room.

Stanford backs away, watching as Stanley gropes under the bed, finds half a bottle of Jack Daniels and starts drinking it like water.

He looks at the three time travelers. The girl opens her hand, the single bullet resting in her palm.

"I rigged it," she confesses, tears streaming down her face.

"Please get me out of here," Stanford begs. They don't have to be convinced. Stanford braces himself against the flash of light, and when he opens his eyes they're in Gravity Falls again.

The girl's got the collar of her sweater pulled up over half her face, and the man is clutching the two children like he's afraid of losing sight of them.

The moment Stanford sinks to his knees he vomits into the grass.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stanford wakes up on his couch, his heart racing. It's a little bit after ten in the morning.

He lurches to his feet, grabbing the notebook with Stanley's phone number on it, and practically falls into the wall as he reaches for his phone.

He dials the number and waits, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against the wood paneling. _Please pick up, please pick up, please pick-_

After a dozen rings it clicks and a prerecorded message from the hotel says their intended caller is not in, please leave a message with the front desk. Stanford hangs up.

"Happy birthday, Stanford," a deep, rough voice says from behind him. He drops the notebook and turns, backing away from the heavily cloaked and cowled intruder.

"What, you're the future one?" he asks, heart pounding. The voice sounds a lot like Pops, but that couldn't be, that would... that would make no sense.

"Yes. I'm here to show you the futures." He turns, and Stanford follows, reminding himself that those three kids from before knew Stan, so that means he had to have survived today.

The cloaked figure opens a random door- it would go to one of the larger storage rooms normally, but beyond it is a wreck of a room, the ceiling partially collapsed, grass growing up through the floorboards.

"Wh-what happened to my house in the future?" Stanford asks. The cloaked figure gestures for him to follow through the door, and after a moment's hesitation Stanford steps through.

"This is just one potential future. This is the reality the kids just came from. This is the reality they're hoping to prevent."

Stanford looks around, shocked. "So... this is the reality where... where I started the apocalypse?"

"This is the reality where you've already sowed the seeds, Stanford," the figure says, a touch accusingly. "You didn't tell the children, when they asked if you knew Bill Cipher. You let them think that you hadn't met him yet."

"We've... we've only just met," Stanford says, oddly guilty. "Is he responsible for this? I know better, now, I know not to trust him or make a deal with him, right? I'm smar-"

"Smart enough to see through his tricks, right?" the figure sighs. "No, Stanford. You're not."

Stanford steps forward, moving to grab the figure's arm, and the figure jumps back as if shocked.

"We can't touch, Stanford. It will erase both of us and this entire dimension if you do." He removes the hood and for a moment Stanford still doesn't understand, the old gray-haired man with cracked glasses looking like Pops but older, looking at him with a patience his father's never felt. It's not until the man raises one gloved, six-fingered hand that Stanford realizes it.

"You're me," he says softly. "You're the me that made all this happen."

"Everything you see around you. Everything that's happened today." He looks around, sighing. "Yes."

"But- Stanley, you let the kids see Stanley try to-" Stanford can't spit the words out, and his older double shakes his head.

"Stanley never... felt comfortable sharing most of his past with me before he died." He frowns, corrects himself. "I never made him feel comfortable sharing his past with me."

Stanford blinks, looking around at the corpse of his home. "When... when did Stanley die?"

"At the end of last summer. Bill Cipher ended the world. Stanley and the kids brought it back, but at a price. Stanley... he's a much better actor than he's ever been given credit for. He tricked an omniscient chaos god into trapping itself inside his mind, knowing all we could do was put a bullet in it to kill them both. Can you imagine, Stanford? The terror in those last moments, trapped alone in the infinite expanse of his own dying brain with that thing?" The older Stanford catches him staring, and he sighs. "Of course not. You haven't felt Cipher's influence yet. You haven't felt him pilot your body, making you do things. You haven't been driven past the borders of madness by him. But you will."

"No I won't," Stanford says, taking a step back. "I wouldn't. I know better."

"Do you honestly think I didn't know better?" the old man asks. "You know what you read in that cave, Stanford. Was anything in that message ambiguous to you about what Cipher was, what he was capable of doing?"

"I won't summon him anymore! I won't let him into my-"

"You knucklehead," the old man sighs. "He is not a dog to be called forth and sent away at your whim. He is a demon. All he needed was the first idiot, and he's already got you."

Stanford presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead.

"How do I stop this?" he asks softly.

"In this dimension, once it becomes apparent that you have no one left you could trust, you finally decide your brother has a chance to prove his worth by helping you to save the world. You send for him in midwinter and he comes as soon as you call. You are doing everything you can to prevent Bill from breaking into this world, and all he has to do is take something from you, something that holds the key to unlocking Bill's influence here. All he has to do is take it far, far away from you and never look back."

"If he had done so, the apocalypse would have never happened. Instead... well. Instead he fights you, demanding to know why you only need him for an errand boy, why he wasn't worth seeing or contacting for a decade only to be summoned for the last time. Something terrible happens, and you spend the next thirty years apart. When you finally reunite, it's because of those children. They're all you have in common. They're everything to him."

One gloved hand runs over the sagging remains of a ruined easy chair, the upholstery spotted with mold and rotting away in places.

"And the apocalypse happens and it's your fault, but it's also his, and Bill's. The children are about to die for your hubris. Hundreds of people in this town are tortured and endangered, and all Bill wants, in exchange for the kids, is the world. And you're about to give it to him, because they're your world."

He looks up. "They're Stanley's world, too. You're about to give in, because you can survive in a world that's just you and the twins. But they're Stanley's world, too, and he wants them to have everything. He doesn't want the kids to survive, he wants them to live. So Stanley saves the world."

"And you pull the trigger."

Stanford shudders, the sound from the hotel room- _clickclickclick_ \- ringing in his ears.

"How do I stop this?" he repeats. The older Stanford sighs, as if he's being incredibly patient with an incredibly stupid person.

"I'm going to show you a world where none of that happens, Stanford. A better world. I'm going to show you the world where Stanley came when you called and did exactly what you asked."

He opens a door, and Stanford follows.

His home is whole: it's better than whole. There's machinery and equipment that Stanford can only guess at their function. Everything is smooth and cool and bright. He doesn't understand _how_ but with one look he does understand that this is the work of millions and millions of dollars and decades of tireless effort.

"This is... this is where I live if there's no apocalypse? If there's no Bill?" Stanford asks faintly, awed.

His older self sighs.

"This is the research hub. You do live onsite, but that's not what we're here to see. No, the purpose of our visit is going to be here in three... two... one-"

"Intruders! How dare-" The man turns a corner and stops at the sight of them, giving the older Stanford a surprised look. "Oh, it's you."

He's a man of sixty and he's hale and cleanshaven, his dirty blonde hair gone mostly snow-white and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes are calm behind the round wire-frame glasses he wears, and his nose is still long.

"God, you're so young," Fiddleford says, blinking at Stanford.

"Fiddleford!" Stanford says, rushing forward to take his friend's hands in his. "You're- you're looking well. My god, Fiddleford, you're... you're so-"

"Stanford here is trying to find out why some dimensions experience Weirdmageddon and some do not," the old Stanford interrupts. "Can you please tell him a little bit about what it is you and our alternate self do here?"

"Uh- sure," Fiddleford says, puzzled. "Well, we study anomalies, as you can imagine, and we have exploratory teams that traverse the multiverse in the name of research. We've spent the last thirty years eradicating darkness and confusion about the world we live in. The world may be getting smaller, but there's an infinite number of worlds to study, so- as you can imagine- we're really far too busy most of the time to entertain unannounced visitors."

"But how did you do this? How do you prevent Bill Cipher from starting the apocalypse?" Stanford presses.

"We enacted proper safety protocols thirty years ago that prevented any... incursions," Fiddleford says, blinking.

"But-" Stanford frowns, looking around him, remembering what the older Stanford said before they came. "Does that mean Stanley isn't dead yet?"

"Who?" Fiddleford asks, honestly baffled. Stanford gapes at him, running a hand through his hair.

"What? What do you mean, _who_? Stanley! My brother! My _twin_! You don't know?!" he asks, taking a shaking breath.

"Oh, that's right," Fiddleford says, the recollection of a man who hasn't heard or needed that information in decades. "I'm sorry, um, Stanford, but you know how you like to keep to yourself about... personal matters. Why, I didn't even know you had a niece and nephew until last year when they came to visit-"

"How did I forget to mention my brother in thirty years of working together, Fiddleford?" Stanford takes a step back, his mind racing- _clickclickclickclick_ \- as his hands clench into fists. 

"I don't know what to say, Stanford. You know how you are about your work, everything else is... secondary," Fiddleford says, backing slowly away with his hands up, like he's trying to calm an injured, frightened animal.

Stanford rounds on his older self, heart pounding. "Well?!"

"Well, what, Stanford?" the old man asks, blinking.

"Well where is he? Where's Stanley?!" he shouts.

The old man smiles, sad and brief.

"Finally. You're asking the right question."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stanford wakes up with a start on his couch, in his den, in his Gravity Falls. He looks at the clock. It's noon on his birthday.

His mouth is dry as a bone; he doesn't care. He picks up the phone and dials the number his Ma gave him.

"Hullo?" his brother slurs. He sounds wasted.

"Do you think Ma's really psychic?" Stanford blurts out. "Do you ever think she's really psychic and she just pretends not to be?"

"...Ford? Izzat you this time?"

"Yeah, Lee. I..."

_clickclickclick_

Stanford starts crying. "I fucked up, Lee."

"Hey... hey. Don't... don't cry, Sixer. Don't..."

_he comes as soon as you call_

"Lee, I need you. I need your help," Stanford says, biting back a sob.

"O-okay. Okay. What... what do you need, Ford?"

_i could make your brother do anything i wanted, i just had to pretend to care about him a little_

"Please come," Stanford says, running his sleeve across his eyes. "Please come, Stanley. Fuck the demon, alright? Fuck all of it, we can figure that part out later, it won't happen the same way. Please, I just... I'll buy you a bus ticket, I just need you to get up here, okay?"

"Hey," Stanley says, trying his hardest to be soothing. "Ford? I'm coming. Whatever... whatever's going on, we can get through it together, right?"

_two small boys with soft brown curls, and from here their hands look the same_

"You're right. We can... we can do it. Together." Stanford wipes furiously at his leaking face.

"Yeah, exactly." There's a slight hesitation. "Hey, Stanford? Uh... happy birthday."

"You too, Lee. I- you too."

 

**Epilogue**

_Thirty years later...  
_

 

Two old men argue quietly over breakfast.

"The creepy duck with the face is gonna scare the kids, Ford! Let me do the hawktopus exhibit!"

"I hate the hawktopus!" One of the old men buries his face in his hands, laughing. "I hate it so much."

His brother puts a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at him.

What happened was this: Stanley came, because Stanford had called. Stanford remembered the work he had seen him and Fiddleford do together in that strange world, so he started building a portal and thought it was mostly his own idea. When Bill Cipher, true to his nature, started dragging Stanford inch by torturous inch into hell, Stanley had been there to save him. They didn't really talk much about their ten years apart, but when one or both of them woke screaming in the night, the other was always there.

Stanford's grant money ran out and Stanley had the idea to turn part of the house into an attraction, half joking entertainment, half serious education about the scientific dangers and wonders of Gravity Falls. Stanley sculpts and taxidermies by night while Stanford works on his portal, and by day they give tours and lectures and explore the wrecked alien ship and the extensive underground caverns and the forest, always together. The townspeople got to know them as those funny twin brothers up at the Science Shack.

It was good. Ma came out to visit. Fiddleford brought his wife and Tate up a few times- and then, after a couple of years, it was just Fiddleford, and of course there was room for him to stay until he got on his feet, and somehow that became a forever thing. Stanley and Sue Wentworth dated off and on for a while, and maybe that last time it would have worked out if he hadn't turned out to be frighteningly allergic to cats. Jimmy Snakes came exactly twice, both times terrifying the shit out of Stanford, both times leaving with a knowing wink but never mentioning what had happened on Stanford's twenty-eighth birthday.

They watched the twins be born together, they came whenever those children called, and when a soft-faced twelve year old boy starts showing up to help sweep up and keep the Science Shack tidy Stanford knows one final piece of the puzzle is in place.

The summer that the twins turn thirteen they stop an apocalypse, together. Stanford is never brave enough to ask the kids if they remember the other world, if Soos remembers seeing the man who became his father put a gun against his head over and over again.

It was never easy. It was usually hard.

Smiling at Stanley over a pile of Stancakes, waiting for the twins to arrive to start their second summer with their beloved Grunkles, Stanford thinks that everything, finally, is exactly what it's meant to be.

"Hey, Stan," he says softly.

"You're serious about the hawktopus thing, aren't you?" Stanley asks, grinning.

"I love you, you dope."

Stanley blinks, and his smile is wide and bright and perfect.

"I love you too, egghead."

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where they get sick of it and start their own AU. BECAUSE THEY DESERVE SOMETHING NICE FOR ONCE.


End file.
